


Mother Moon

by thegirlnamedcove



Series: Culture and Werewolves [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Derek Hale & Scott McCall are Both Alphas, Derek Hale Bites Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, Good Alpha Derek Hale, Interfaith, Judaism, M/M, Marriage, Marriage Proposal, Mates, Pack Dynamics, Stiles Stilinski Accepts The Bite, Wedding Planning, Weddings, Werewolf Culture, Werewolf Mates, blending cultures, reform judaism, wedding stress, werewolf religion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-26
Updated: 2018-03-31
Packaged: 2019-04-08 16:18:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14109243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegirlnamedcove/pseuds/thegirlnamedcove
Summary: Weddings, Stiles thought, were just a series of arguments meant to dissuade you from your future love.





	1. Opening Prayer

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is finished. I will post one chapter per day, six chapters total, and then if I can get my notes organized into something decipherable I'll post those. So much of what I prepared and created didn't make it into the fic and I would love to share it with y'all.
> 
> You don't strictly need to read Good Hunting in order for this to make sense, but you should. This is a sequel, and there's even more schmoop in that one.

“Oh my god,” tears pooled in Stiles’ eyes, threatening to spill over and down his face, “Yes, Derek, yes. Of course, yes!”

He leapt forward into Derek’s arms, golden ring quickly forgotten, and buried his nose in his boyfriend’s--no, his fiance’s--shoulder. Derek huffed, fighting off tears and laughter of his own, and held Stiles tighter. Around them the restaurant continued as if nothing unusual was occurring, waiters bustling past, forks clinking noisily against bowls. When they separated, reluctantly, Derek signalled the busboy for another bottle of champagne, his face split in a grin.

Stiles thought that agreeing to marry Derek was the easiest thing he had ever done.

 

***

 

Like all things in adult life, it wasn’t easy at all.

“I am not setting foot in a church.”

“Synagogue, Derek, fucking synagogue, and it’s not exactly like you’re a vampire. You won’t turn to ash if you get within three feet of the bimah, so what exactly is your damage here?”

Derek narrowed his eyes and took a step forward, seemingly itching for a fight.

“You go to your Rabbi and you tell him about werewolves, Stiles, and if he somehow believes you I bet anything he starts in on demonic presences. We aren’t accepted in the world, and religion is the first part of that. It’s how they taught everyone to hate us, by convincing everyone we were sin incarnate!”

Stiles scoffed, “So, what? Werewolves are all edgy atheists?”

“Well we don’t go to churches! We aren’t going to sit and worship imaginary gods and pretend at some kind of purity that no one actually thinks we’re capable of! And I won’t either.”

His chest was heaving with unexpressed emotion, still so much anger left in him that needed to come out, and Stiles felt weary with it. A counselor in school had once told him that anger needed to be let out, that he should scream or use a punching bag or rip up paper when he felt upset, but lately it felt like that was all he’d been doing for years. All Derek had been doing too. It only ever self perpetuated, an awful, terrible, baleful cycle of hurt, and he was so weary.

“Derek,” Stiles sighed, “I didn’t expect you to be this wigged out about it, and I'm sorry. People are shitty and they say shitty things and then your shitty fiance makes you relive them all over again.”

Derek slumped and looked away. His voice was small.

“You aren’t shitty.”

“I am sometimes,” he smiled, “But this is important to me, it’s how I’ve imagined my wedding my whole life, and I don't think I'm asking for the moon here. So if it really can’t happen, so be it, but I want us to at least  _ try _ . And hey,” he reached out and captured Derek’s hand, “it’s not all about me. We can incorporate your beliefs too. We can have it outside, at midnight, naked if that’s how werewolves are.”

“We don’t get naked, Stiles,” he huffed.

“I can tell when you’re lying, man.”

“Don’t call me man.”

“Wereman?”

“Were  _ means _ man, you know that--”

“Man wolf? Wolf man? Hey, Wolf Man! That’s a head trip, we haven’t seen that in--”

“Stiles!”

He smiled, big and broad, and ran his hand up from Derek’s hand to his shoulder.

“I knew fighting would get us to stop fighting.”

Derek struggled to keep his smile off his face but lost ground at the goofy look on Stiles’. He reached out and hooked an arm around his fiance’s shoulder and tugged them together.

“Okay, fine. You’re right. You’re getting married just as much as I am and you deserve some say in things. But, Stiles, I don’t think you know just how ugly the history gets. It’s pretty much just druids who like us, and even that relationship is...wary.”

“I don’t think  _ you _ know the history, Derek. Admit it, ‘rabbi’ is the only Hebrew word you know.”

He huffed against Stiles’ neck, pressing his mouth to skin to obscure his answer.

“Maybe.”

“Look,” Stiles drew back and looked Derek in the eye, “I’ll set up a meeting. It can be on neutral ground if you want, that shi-shi coffee house you like where all the employees hate me, and you can meet Rabbi Volkovich and talk with him. I don’t really know how we can guide the conversation from meet-the-fiance to werewolves but we’ll figure it out.”

Derek raised an eyebrow, “You’ve spoken to him about weddings before?”

Stiles grinned and clapped him on the shoulder.

“Derek I called him about marrying you after our second date.”

 

***

 

The shi-shi coffee house (“Procaffeinating”) charged $8 for a large, plus $2 for the extra shots of syrup Stiles demanded he get (“Sweet goes in the mouth, sweet comes out, it’s foolproof.”) but Derek hadn’t touched a drop of it by the time the Rabbi arrived. It sat in his hand, a waste of money and effort, lukewarm and probably gone sour and his stomach felt much the same.

Volkovich was not an imposing man, although when Derek and Stiles stood to shake his hand it appeared he was taller than the both of them. His shoulders were slight and his wrists narrow, a full beard softening the edges of his jaw, and he smiled like he just ran into them by coincidence, like he had no stake in the meeting or its outcome. The sour feeling in Derek’s stomach started to roil. A disarming smile, in his life, typically meant someone wanted him without arms or defenses, and he  _ hated _ that he had to think that way.

“Afternoon, sorry to be late.”

“Hey there Rabbi Volkovich. This is my betrothed, Derek Hale.”

He shook each man’s hand in turn, “Stiles, Derek.”

They made small talk at first, little bits and pieces exchanged like currency. How’s work? What’s your dad doing? Any good crimes to report? It flowed well enough for a first meeting, if a bit stilted. Then, maybe twenty minutes in, he turned his gaze to Derek and smiled that disarming smile again.

“So, Stiles tells me you have some reservations about getting married in the Temple.”

And here’s the thing: Derek has never been good at confrontation. He certainly got enough of it in his daily life, from monster attacks to the overwhelming and overbearing presence of the pack, but he’d never been  _ good _ at it. He couldn’t navigate its waters past basic survival. It was to his benefit that most people with villainous inclinations liked to monologue because it gave him time to compose himself, to focus on what he could and could not say. Something direct, like this, was and always would be his undoing. And it was this explanation he would offer to Stiles later when he made fun of him for blurting out:

“I’m a werewolf.”

Whatever he expected, it wasn’t for Rabbi Volkovich to nod thoughtfully and fish his phone out of his pocket, not an ounce of composure lost.

“It’s funny we should meet now of all times. The Torah reading this week is on Binyamin, and I think it might assuage your doubts. We have a few like you locally, so I’m familiar with the anxieties you face.”

He scrolled absentmindedly through something on the tiny screen and then began to read, his Hebrew and his English mingling together into something melodic and soothing. Derek sat, frozen to the spot, as he spoke. He tumbled through blessing after blessing, endless names Derek wasn’t familiar with, before finishing with Binyamin.

“Binyamin is a wolf, he will prey; in the morning he will devour plunder, and in the evening he will divide the spoil.”

He set his phone on the small table with a decisive clack.

“Wait,” Stiles said, brow scrunched up, “that doesn’t mean he’s a werewolf.”

“That alone, no, but we know that he was. Other scriptures, tradition, and so on. There were many wolves within his tribe, that was his blessing. Out of everyone who ever lived only four were righteous enough that they did not deserve to be taken by death and Binyamin was one.”

“How do you…” Derek’s crossed his arms tightly over his chest, “being called a wolf isn’t much of a blessing for most of the world.”

“Mm-hmm,” Rabbi Volkovich swirled the coffee in front of him and took a sip, “and yet...”

His eyes flashed bright yellow.

“Omega?” he breathed. Stiles was excitedly smacking at his arm--it would seem this wasn’t public knowledge--but Derek couldn’t tear his own eyes away. The Rabbi’s fingers had gained claws where they rested against the cup.

He nodded, “At the moment, yes. Although I’ve been talking with the Satomi pack for a while about joining. The Buddhism is...a barrier.”

“Oh my god, how have you never told me?” Stiles crowed, “I mean, I know I was never all that honest about my pack but we all know I’m not as good a liar as I think I am, so what gives?”

“You’re a wolf?” Rabbi Volkovich leaned forward and inhaled, a curious tilt to his head.

“No, no, just the resident human,” Stiles flapped a hand, “which I’m sure doesn’t count for much. But there’s a dozen of us now, and growing if the lovely librarian would ever agree to come talk to us.”

Derek broke his gaze away from the Rabbi, finally, to glare at Stiles.

“You know I don’t like her. She has no sense of boundaries.”

“I know,” Stiles sighed, “but I think she can learn. She’s not malicious, just...lonely, touch-starved. Erica was the same for a while, you know that. Although I’m not making excuses--”

“Good. You shouldn’t. I had to beat that out of Erica--” he stopped himself and cut a glance over at their guest, who only smirked at the exchange.

“You won’t frighten me off, Derek. I’m not squeamish.”

“I admit, I never expected to find someone like you.”

He shrugged.

“You likely wouldn’t have if it weren’t for the energetic young man dragging you along by the ear.”

Stiles eyes widened and he smiled at the both of them.

“That’s right, I got side tracked. So!” Stiles clapped his hands, “Marriage! Thoughts?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just like the last one this fic is primarily about diving into werewolf culture, although this time the focus is on religion. Stiles' Reform Judaism, Derek's religious beliefs as a werewolf, and how those interact as they plan a wedding. It's all very involved, I basically created a faith from scratch. I'll try and post what resources I used with each chapter, in case anyone is interested.
> 
> For this chapter, I found [this torah class](https://www.chabad.org/multimedia/media_cdo/aid/2814429/jewish/Benjamin-a-Preying-Wolf.htm) to be very educational. And this didn't really inform the story, but [this article](https://forward.com/news/israel/125420/the-werewolf-s-jewish-roots/) about the man who wrote the Wolfman is incredibly fascinating.


	2. Giving In Marriage

Despite the “proof” Stiles had given months before, when they’d first started dating, there was still a lot to do in terms of the pack and their shifting dynamics. Stiles regularly complained about “social constructs” and “oh my god Derek, that is so not how instincts work”, but the fact of the matter was that werewolves reacted to their Alpha taking a long term partner in predictable ways and they would need to be addressed openly if things were going to continue in a healthy manner. He’d had simply worked too hard for too long to let the peace they had slip away.

So, two months into wedding planning, Derek scheduled a special pack meeting.

“So, basically, you want us to be bridesmaids?” Erica asked, claws out as she painted each one a shimmering ocean blue. It struck him as not unlike those Buddhist art pieces made of sand, swept away as soon as they were finished. It would all be gone as soon as she shifted back.

“Not exactly,” he said, “You won’t just be...standing there. Like some kind of decoration. You’ll be participating fully, it’s as important for you all to accept him as it is for me to accept him. He’s marrying into an important position.”

“But he’s already pack,” Scott offered, “Isn’t he?”

“Of course I’m pack,” Stiles said. His heart skipped, just a little, and he cut a glance at Derek seeking the nod of confirmation that would set his nerves at rest once again, but he was otherwise sure and steady, and met the eyes of everyone he could, “This is me moving up in the pack, though, and Derek says that if you guys don’t go through this ceremony and accept that change you could start to view me as a challenge. And I  _ know _ you all remember what raging testosterone douchebags you were when you were first bitten and running on impulse, so spare a thought to the kind of havoc a challenge to your status could cause.”

There was grumbling, and protest, but Boyd just hummed and said a measured “fair” and the matter was settled among those present. Boyd had that effect, Derek had noticed, and it made him a good second. Speaking of which…

“A big part of this change in position is how it changes the ranking of the pack. Stiles will become my second in command, that’s not optional, and with that comes a lot of risk and responsibility. He’ll be there with me when we face down the newest threat or talk to other packs, whether I like it or not, and we have to consider how we can protect him.”

Stiles scoffed, “Excuse you, I have gotten  _ great _ at mundane magic, thankyouverymuch.”

“Stiles,” he sighed and glanced at the ceiling, “It’s not enough. You know it isn’t enough from all the times you ended up hurt. I’m talking bigger measures, like runic tattoos or tying you to the earth in this area or offering you the bite--”

“The  _ what _ ?” his voice was suddenly shrill and pinched and he swiveled to face Derek head on.

Derek winced.

“It’s something that is always offered to human partners, and if you choose to do it we will include it in the ceremony,” he offered, quietly.

“And you didn’t think this warranted a conversation right away? Or, at least, one in private?” he gestured towards the wolves now watching with rapt attention.

He shrugged, “I didn’t know how to bring it up. You’ve always seemed….uncomfortable with the idea of being a wolf. I assumed you’d just shrug it off.”

Stiles laughed, then, and it was wholly unsettling. There was no mirth, no playfulness, just stress and nerves and agitation bubbling up out of him.

“You mean every time Peter offered it? Or Scott? Don’t get me wrong, I love my brother,” he glanced over and Scott rolled his eyes, “but did you ever consider that I was waiting for my Alpha to offer it to me?”

When Derek looked up from his folded hands Stiles was pinning him with a look that conveyed every drop of dissatisfaction he had to give, and suddenly he felt about an inch tall. He hadn’t considered that, would never have reached that conclusion on his own, and really where had that come from? Stiles had never even said those words together in a sentence before now.

“Your--” his voice broke and he cleared his throat, “your Alpha?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “Yes, dude, my Alpha. It’s been you since I was sixteen years old, it’ll always be you.”

Derek’s throat was suddenly full with emotion, tears hot at his eyes, and he swallowed against it in an attempt to seem cool and level headed in front of the pack.

“So, do you? Want the bite, I mean?”

Stiles held his gaze for a few minutes, fingers fidgeting in his lap and audience forgotten. Finally, he huffed and cast his eyes down at his shoes.

“Obviously I've thought about it, and the consequences and whatever, but...could you give me a chance to go over it again?”

Derek felt frozen in his anxiety, a feeling like he was at the crest of a roller coaster just waiting to go over the peak and get the stress over with, but Stiles wouldn’t give him that satisfaction. With his nerves still alight, he nodded.

“Take however much time you need.”

Erica crowed and Allison began furiously texting someone, probably Chris. Scott slung an arm around Stiles and began a hushed conversation that Derek tried his hardest not to eavesdrop on. Instead he turned to Boyd and Erica on his right and raised his eyebrows in question. They mirrored his expression back, and then Boyd huffed out a sigh and started to talk.

“It’s up to him, we all know that. But I think you’re kidding yourself, both of you, if you try and say he doesn’t want it.”

Erica nodded, “It’s a lot to take on, and he’d be accepting so much risk into his life. Both of us know that, from experience.”

Derek winced.

“But,” she continued, “it’s something we’ve grown into and I think he could adapt too. Give him a chance.”

Next to him, Stiles and Scott had entered into a harsh whisper fight, complete with big gestures and occasional slaps and shoves, and Derek knew he needed out of the situation if he was going to keep himself from spying, so he launched to his feet and headed towards the kitchen.

“I’m making spearmint tea. If anyone wants any raise your hand now, and Lydia I want you to summarize our current pixie infestation on the North border of our territory.”

The meeting picked back up, eventually, and soon any fighting was long forgotten outside of a few dirty looks from Scott that Derek couldn’t interpret.

 

***

 

“So you never answered my question.”

“Hmm?” Derek looked up from where he was working on his latest translation job, a romance novel with a plotline seemingly devised by an eight year old that the client had enough confidence in to pay for versions in Spanish and Italian.

“Are all werewolves edgy atheists?” he was rolling a hacky sack between his hands, experimenting with the give of the material and pressing his palms into it to make it squish, “You certainly don’t seem to fit into any of the Abrahamic faiths.”

Derek turned his eyes back to his book and tried to sort through his thoughts. It didn't seem like the sort of thing to blurt out, especially with the reactions he’d gotten from past partners and even casual friends. Werewolves were seen as demonic by a lot of major religions (really, if he was honest, his main experience was with Christianity), and moon worship? Well that was downright paganism, both literally and in the derogatory way most modern people meant it, and it had been a source of conflict in every relationship he’d had so far. While he’d never exactly put voice to his thoughts a part of him had been resolved to keep this facet of himself hidden, private, in order to preserve what he had with Stiles. But, as he sat there, highlighter in hand and glancing up at his fiance’s expectant face, he knew Boyd was right. They were getting married and he needed to give Stiles more credit if he expected him to be Derek’s partner.

“We, um…” his voice came out small, “We worship Mother Moon. She’s…..she’s really important to us but there’s nothing like her in any other faith. Not really.”

“So you worship the moon?” Stiles paused in his assault on the hacky sack, “Way to buck stereotypes there, man.”

“No, it’s not--” Derek growled a little as he tried to organize his thoughts, “It’s not the moon. She’s a  _ person _ , and she cares for us. She’s  _ real _ .”

When he looked up Stiles’ face was open and soft.

“Tell me about her,” he said.

“Um...she’s just...When I was growing up we heard a lot about Mother Moon. Her name is Nikolana and she birthed the first werewolves millions of years ago. She’s always….pregnant and always creating new ones, that’s where True Alphas come from. And in exchange for her gift and her blessings we follow her. Obey her instructions and give her things at her temples.”

“Temples?”

“Yeah, there’s--” he hesitated, the information so ingrained as being secret that he found it difficult to push the words past his tongue and out into the open, “There’s one in the preserve, from before. When there were more of us.”

Stiles’ eyes widened in wonder and he offered a small gasp before steeling himself for his next question.

“Can I go there?”

“What?” Derek snapped his gaze up to meet Stiles’.

“Can I see it? I mean...I don’t want to push or anything but...I actually super want to push because you and Peter and every other werewolf I’ve ever met are usually so close-lipped about what it’s like growing up werewolf, and opportunities like this don’t come up every day, and I just--”

“Stiles!”

He quirked a grin, the nuisance, and Derek sighed and rolled his eyes.

“Maybe. Next full moon I’ll...think about it.”

Stiles crowed his excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No research to give you today, but I will say I love werewolf Stiles. And I love the idea of "the Bite is a gift", and I love it applied to a wedding, especially after the bit in Good Hunting about only indulging in wolfish tendencies when someone was getting married or having a baby. I just...fucking love werewolves. Every character should be a werewolf.


	3. Vows

Weddings, Stiles decided, were just a series of arguments meant to dissuade you from your future love. A trial by fire, of sorts. They’d had the religion argument--really, it was ongoing even if it was more civil now--and they’d had the decoration argument. The food argument, the jobs argument, the venue argument. Who of their friends to invite and who to gently but firmly discourage from coming. The Argents were in that second category and it had taken a tense conversation including the words “trigger” and “assault” for Allison to finally acquiesce and agree to just send a fruit basket in lieu of attending, although Derek still felt that it really sounded more like a threat than a kindness when she said it.

Blending traditions was hard, and made even harder when you had real reasons on each side to preserve it. Like it or not, Stiles and Derek were both the last of their family line and they had the weight of both families at their backs.

Not that John Stilinski seemed to care. At maybe the dozenth Saturday Family Dinner--something which had been Stiles’ goddamn idea, so he had no idea how or when he’d surrendered control over the proceedings--he slid a wrapped present across the peeling kitchen table.

“I know you’re not doing things exactly to tradition,  but I figured you’d still break the glass at least, so. This is for you.”

Derek’s fingers landed on it first and his claws pushed out just enough to snag the paper. He made quick work of it, revealing a black box inside and when he pried it open there sat a yellowing cotton handkerchief, with baby blue edging embroidered on in inconsistent loops, and much newer and more vibrant embroidery across the front.

The letters, a pretty gothic font that Stiles would approve of under normal circumstances, read “Hale”.

“It’s the one your mom and I used,” John said softly, staring down at the cloth in something like wonder, and Stiles’ indignation crawled back down his throat.

“That’s fantastic, dad. Maybe we could get...matching ones. It’ll be great?”

John looked up, after a moment, brow pulled down in a knot.

“What? Why would you need two?”

“Well, I’m not...I mean, I’m not changing my name. If I do you’ll be the last Stilinski left.”

His dad shrugged and Stiles suppressed a groan at the feigned indifference. Or, he had to assume it was feigned. It’s not like his dad had taken his mom’s name, it had meant something to him at some point in time.

“There are a lot of Stilinskis out there in the world, kid.”

“Not--” Stiles huffed, “None of  _ ours _ .”

John looked between the two of them, sussing something out for himself. For the first time since the box had been opened Stiles looked over to gauge Derek’s reaction. He was guarded, for sure, and measured. He met Stiles’ eye and didn’t offer much of an opinion besides a low level hum. But his fingers kept tracing the lettering, especially around the fat belly of the “a”, and the way he clutched at the box suggested that he might fight Stiles if he tried to take it away.

“Well,” John said, “I can get it redone if you-- They can do whatever name you want.”

“Big guy?” Stiles said, and tried to keep his voice just as neutral as Derek’s face, “Wanna weigh in?”

“I’m not, um…” he cleared his throat, “I’m not changing my last name either. I know there’s Cora and...Peter, but...I’m not.”

John sighed and pushed back from the table, snagging the half empty glasses from each place setting and heading towards the kitchen.

“You two talk. I’ll be back in a few minutes with some gin.”

Once he was around the corner and the dishwasher switched on--the closest approximation of privacy they could manage in a house with no doors between the common areas and the agreed upon protocol for Big Discussions since Stiles was a kid--Derek slumped back against his seat.

“I’m not going to make you give it up, Derek. I hope you know that.”

“I know,” Derek said, and he was so quiet it was hard to hear him over the sloshing white noise in the background, even as close as they were, “but this is your mother’s, and I should be respectful. We can...pull it out. Redo it with your name.”

Stiles ran his fingers along the grooves in the table, a frown pulling at his face.

“Is this just about the handkerchief? Because, like I said, we can get two. And I kind of like the idea of your name on something symbolic of my family since, you know, you’re going to  _ be _ my family.”

Derek smiled at that, head ducked a little like it always was when Stiles said something sappy. On some level he still didn’t expect to be desirable, as a partner, and that fact would frustrate Stiles until they were both old and gray.

“Yeah, well. I like the idea of my name on you. I guess I thought...I dunno. I thought what with everyone calling you Stiles that the Stilinski name would still stay with you and you could...you could add to the number of Hales out there, instead of subtracting from your family.”

They’d talked about it before, in vague ways and rough allusions, but never quite so blunt or pragmatic as this, and Stiles had to admit it made a sort of sense. Unless he wanted to revert back to Mieczyslaw, he would remain the kid with two last names, Stiles Stilinski. It wouldn’t be so terrible to change one of them.

All the same, something about it unsettled him, something tied to a much bigger conversation than he had been willing to have before now.

“What about our kids?” he said, “Which name are they going to get? Because, I mean, awesome, fantastic, I get to keep Stiles, but if all our kids end up as Hales then it dies out anyway. And I know there’s…”

He huffed, more emotional than he’d been expecting, and Derek took one hand off the box finally and laced his fingers with Stiles’.

“I know there’s more in the world, like Dad says, but it matters to me that this specific branch of the family tree keeps going.”

“I know,” Derek sighed, “It’s the branch with your mom in it. Mine is the branch with  _ my _ mom in it. I understand.”

They sat there in silence, listening to the dishwasher switch over to the quieter rinse cycle, and stared at the handkerchief in front of them like it could offer real answers.

“How about this,” Derek said, “the girls can be Hales, and the boys can be Stilinskis.”

Stiles’ eyebrows crept towards his hairline.

“How many kids are you planning on acquiring, Derek?”

“Not me,” Derek grumbled, and shook Stiles hand where he still held it, a little petulantly, “Us. We will be having kids together. And, I don’t know. I mean, I grew up with three siblings plus aunts and uncles and cousins. I’ve been on my own now for….a while, but...I guess I always assumed I’d have a house that full again. As many kids as I could handle.”

Stiles wouldn’t lie, if Derek happened to ask, and say that the thought didn’t make him panic a little. He’d grown up in a family of three, then two, then two plus Scott on weekends and Melissa every once in awhile. He could get as much alone time as he wanted, and to be frank he wanted it often. He didn’t know a lot about raising kids, but he knew alone time wasn’t likely with even one. They were children, they needed things all the time, and his wants wouldn’t matter once they were around.

But he did want them, even with that cost considered, and he wanted them with Derek. He wanted a huge pack house, and he wanted to be able to leave his private space and see all his people there, safe and sound.

“How does the name tradition work? For werewolves?”

Derek swallowed, and his throat clicked.

“Everyone takes the alpha’s surname. Last names have always designated pack, for us. What me and Scott have going is nontraditional in a big way, if we ever meet another pack it’s going to be a clusterfuck for them trying to keep us straight.”

“And how do you know which kids are going to be alphas?”

Derek shrugged, “Firstborn usually, although sometimes they switch it up based on temperament. Peter was older than my mom, but he wasn’t a  _ people person _ .”

He sneered as he said the word and Stiles chuckled, lifting their joined hands to place a kiss on the back of Derek’s.

“So we’ll alternate then. First one Hale, second one Stilinski, and keep going until...until we’re done. However many that is.”

“Kind of like a lottery?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“And you’ll take my name?”

Stiles reached out and pulled the box, gently, from Derek’s hand, although he still wasn’t totally sure he wouldn’t lose fingers in the attempt. He held it close and felt the edges, oxidized with time and fragile. He had to imagine it was cheap when they bought it--from the quality, but also from stories he’d heard about their first apartment, how they stayed in for their honeymoon, unplugged the phone and locked the door and drank as much Charles Shaw wine as they could instead of going somewhere they could never hope to afford. He recognized, too, his mother’s stitch work even if he’d never seen this specific piece of cloth before. The same looping scallops adorned the pillowcase he still wasn’t willing to get rid of.

He had to admit, Derek’s name did look good there, even if he still felt uneasy about the change.

“Yeah,” he said, and his throat felt full, with what emotion he would never be able to say, “I’ll take your name.”

As if on cue John swanned back into the room and set down a few crystal glasses on the table as well as a bottle of Aviation gin and settled back into his chair.

“You were eavesdropping, you little shit!” Stiles said, and smacked a hand against the table.

“Prove it, kid. Now, I think all that maturity deserves a drink,” he unscrewed the lid and started pouring fingers in each glass, a mischievous smile playing over his broad face, “Tell me more about the cake tasting.”

Stiles groaned and slid down in his chair, wondering if he could get away with just sinking straight to the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The alpha last name is practically canon, if you ask me.


	4. Breaking The Glass

Despite a long history of missteps and bad judgement that Stiles still loved to tease Derek for, he did keep his promises when he could. Alpha packs and darach and evil chaos gods aside, he knew what loyalty meant, and knew not to offer something he wasn’t willing or able to give under normal circumstances.

So no matter how he felt that Saturday morning, no matter how acrid and acidic his stomach felt, sitting in his chest like a ten pound weight, he would take Stiles to the temple out in the woods. He had promised.

Stiles flitted around the kitchen packing provisions into a Jansport and changing his mind every five seconds about which thermos would be better to hold the coffee that was bubbling and hissing in the background as the carafe filled up.

“You know it’s not, like, a three day hike, right?” Derek said, although he wasn’t really sure what he would do if Stiles stopped stalling. He didn’t know, at that point, if he would be able to pry his fingers free from where he had them braced against the counter, let alone walk out the door. The moon was amplifying his own anxiety into something live and overwhelming.

“I know, but I don’t know how long we’ll stay. Maybe just an hour, but...I don’t know.”

He sighed and slumped against the counter, seeming to acknowledge finally that he’d run out of tasks to set his hands to and crossing them instead in front of his chest.

“You know, growing up a lot of this religion shit seemed like faerie tales to me, especially after mom died,” he scrubbed his cheek against his shoulder, “But then I met you, and I met Peter, and everything happened with Scott. Lydia. Kira. And I remember in junior year asking dad if we could go back one sabbath for old time’s sake. Suddenly it all seemed a lot more probable, considering what else was out there, and I just had to know. Walking in was like...it felt like the room was charged with this kind of quiet electricity. I expected my hand to spark every time it brushed against another person, complete some circuit. It was different, whether because I was more sensitive to forces like that now or because I was just placing more significance in it. I started going again, as often as I could, and I met Rabbi Volkovich. He was new at the time. It all clicked into place, and it helped me  _ deal _ with everything.”

“He’s a good guy,” Derek said, and he meant it. That first meeting had just been the beginning. There was a lot of work to be done trying to balance out the two traditions, and Derek’s work schedule was a lot more forgiving than Stiles’, so he’d been going to most meetings alone. The rabbi  _ was _ good, and calm, and giving, and even though he didn’t believe in Mother Moon--something Derek couldn’t begin to understand--he did know the rituals. He respected Derek’s sincerity of belief, at least, as long as Derek respected his.

Stiles smiled and reached out towards Derek, and he let go of the counter and slipped a hand into the outstretched palm.

“I guess I’m just preparing for the possibility of that happening again. Hoping for it to happen again. Hashem is almighty, but I think it’s safe to say He’s not the only force that exists. I’ve been possessed by at least one other.”

Derek cringed and Stiles seemed to catch himself and cringe too. He hustled towards the coffee maker and grabbed a thermos at random to fill, cutting off any opportunity for Derek to offer a hug or condolences or anything else that Derek knew he didn’t appreciate.

“So, I don’t know Mother Moon, but if you say she’s real, I’m expecting magic and wonder. And I figure I might want to stay a while.”

“Okay,” Derek said, and finally stepped away from the counter and towards the shoe rack, “Pack as much as you want. Fair warning though, there aren’t any bathrooms there.”

“What?!” Stiles shot a look over his shoulder, “How is that practical?”

“We’re wolves,” Derek shrugged, “There’s a stream.”

 

***

 

Derek could practically see the hobbit jokes fighting to burst out of Stiles as they stood in front of the temple entrance, hewn as it was into a low hillside and covered over with a rounded door. He was practically blue in the face with everything he was pointedly not saying, and Derek’s apprehension wound a little tighter the longer the silence continued.

He’d intended to come ahead of time, pull weeds and sweep, get the place ready for worship, but he hadn’t had the courage. Now he scanned the hillside, the clover and dandelions that covered it and the blackberry bush that was encroaching on the western side, and he decided he liked this look better. It made him think of Eden, the way the Rabbi had described it, lush and fertile and full. Like Nikolana.

The ache in his chest for her pulled him forward, and he touched the door with just the tips of his fingers before pushing it in and open. Stiles stepped up beside him, flashlight already out, and switched it on to illuminate the small room inside. In the dim light, Derek did a quick and efficient circuit, opening windows and pulling the rope that lifted the skylight to let the sun in, before turning his attention to the room’s contents.

The space was oriented in a circle, a few tables and cabinets around the edges to hold materials but otherwise sparse, with a sunken floor in the center and a small stone altar. On top, a large circular pattern was carved, thick with dust and grime, and Stiles moved closer to get a look at its design.

“What is everything? What will we be doing?”

“Don’t touch it,” Derek said, just as Stiles’ hand strayed towards the altar and he halted, “That’s the azus. Where we give offering, you can only touch it when you’re giving something to her.”

Stiles cocked an eyebrow at him, “Are we going to give her dust?”

“Just,” Derek sighed, and turned on his heel toward one of the tall cabinets, “Come over here.”

Stiles followed, thankfully, and accepted the various candles and instruments into his hands as Derek pulled them out. Once they were laid out on the table, he went down the line, old words a little clumsy in his mouth after so many years.

“That’s the zi’azus, which gets put on top of the azus. This is the carmign, I’ll be the one handling that. If you can set the candles out, one on each window ledge, that would be great, but don’t use a lighter. They have to be lit from a natural fire. There’s some flint in that box.” He tapped the lid of a small cardboard box with worn sides, almost falling apart.

“What will you be doing?”

Derek cringed, and looked around.

“Sweeping.”

Working together, it took them no time at all. At the back of the temple a low door, no higher than Derek’s knee, was nestled into the wall. It opened up to the creek, meant for disposing  of the offerings, ash and food, in a way that wasn’t a garbage can. He swept the dust out the same way, into the moving water, as well as the few shoots growing at the edges of the windows where the light had managed to breach the small space. Stiles struggled a little with the flint, knocking his hand against the wall at one point and razing his knuckles when he applied just a bit too much force, but he got it eventually, and then used the one successful candle to light the others. When they’d both finished, Derek closed the front and back doors, and grabbed the Jansport from the corner to take with him to the altar.

“Alright. Sit down.” He indicated the floor across from him, where the floor was lower. Sitting cross legged, the altar came to his chest, and the familiarity of it, the sense memory, tore through him.

He sat and stared at the altar for a long few minutes before Stiles’ voice brought him back.

“Right,” he cleared his throat, “I’m going from memory. Usually a woman is meant to do this, the oldest woman but...it’s just you and me today so...okay.”

He took the carmign, a dark navy sheet with white knots of thread sewn in every few inches, spattered almost randomly across its surface, into his hands and begin to speak.

“Tonight is the night of the strawberry moon, when we tell the story of the Baying Dog. We wolves come to our mother seeking shelter, and to introduce a new alpha of the Hales. I--” he cut himself off. He felt, oddly, like he might cry. He hadn’t even been able to cry in years. “I’m the new alpha, Mother Moon. Derek Hale, the last of the Hales. This is my mate. Future mate. We’re bonding really soon.”

He tipped his face up to the skylight where a small patch of blue sky shone through. Across from him, Stiles’ gaze followed.

“Hi, I’m...um, I’m Stiles. Stilinski. Human extraordinaire. Nice to meet you Nicola.”

“Nikolana.”

“Right, Nikolana.”

Derek shook the sheet out between his hands and finally dropped his eyes back down to the altar. He took a deep breath in and tried to focus his attention. Narrow his world down to just the movements of his hands in front of him. He recited the story he knew by heart.

“When the world was new and cruel, and covered in ash and soil, Mother Moon’s children roamed wild across its surface. Each moon they returned to her and each moon they went out from her, and she loved them all completely.

“On the new moon, though, they were not in her presence, and the hunters who hated them would chase them out of their homes. One wolf, called the Baying Dog for his voice was bigger than his body, ran through the woods with a hunter on his trail, arrows and spears flying past him on the air.

“He called out, ‘Mother, Mother!’ even though he did not think she could hear, and before he could make it one step further she was there.

“What is it you need, she asked, and the Baying Dog told her that he did not yet want to die. She saw the hunter. She smelled her child’s fear.

“So she pulled her cloak off of her shoulders, dark and deep and full of stars, and tossed it over the Baying Dog. Darkness descended, clothed as he was in the night, and the hunter could not see him anymore.”

Derek laid out the sheet to cover the altar and smoothed it with his hands.

“For the Baying Dog she lit the way with the pearl she wore around her throat, shining as it was with beauty and light. The wolf could see where the hunter could not.”

He picked up the bowl he had called the zi’azus and set it gently on the clothed altar. It was wide and shallow, made of clay but inlaid with mother of pearl on the inside, its surface dappled like the full moon.

“And when he was safe, in his den, she fed him from her breasts to heal his wounds. Her milk flowed freely, as it does for all of us.”

He reached into the backpack and pulled out the quart of milk he’d slid in alongside all Stiles’ provisions. Darigold 2%, which felt a little silly in the context of everything else. He could see why his mother and Laura had always poured it into a pitcher first.

A hot prickle of shame crept across his cheeks. Was he doing this right? Could he ever do this right? Still, he opened the spout and poured what he had into the bowl.

He looked up, once he’d finished. Stiles was staring at him, something complicated in his eyes, and he offered a small smile.

“What’s next?” he asked.

“We, um…” Derek shifted a little closer to the edge of the altar, “We drink. Use your hands. To accept her three gifts.”

Stiles nodded, and scooted closer too, and then they both dipped their hands into the cold pool of milk.

“Our mother has given us the night to hide us.”

He lifted his hands, both cupped together, to his mouth and swallowed, then moved his hands back to take more. Stiles mimicked him.

“Our mother gave us the moon to guide us.”

He drank again. Stiles followed.

“Our mother gave us the healing inside us.”

One last time, and then they were both sitting there, hands tacky and wet, and Stiles’ face broke out in a grin.

“Magic and wonder,” he said, and Derek smiled back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, this chapter is early. So sue me.
> 
> Did you know that if you look up "moon worship" you mostly get a bunch of conspiracy theory blogs? Mostly they'll try and point to various religions or groups and prove that they are secretly moon worshippers, but then there's nothing after that. It's just "they worship the moon!" and they expect you to be immediately outraged.
> 
> What does everyone have against the moon?
> 
> It made the most sense to me that the moon would be involved in a werewolf religion, and that there would be a werewolf religion unto itself considering how isolated their communities must have been at various points in history. And it made sense to me that if those were both true, Derek's main interaction with the world regarding his religion would be seeing those conspiracy blogs that just assume it as a pat evil.
> 
> Also, I can't find the source I used anymore, but it is surprisingly hard to find options for what to call G-d in casual conversation. Like, Stiles goes to a Reform temple and most Reform temples are less strict with that, but I felt like he wouldn't be, and I didn't think "Adonai" was a good choice since it literally just means G-d. Anyway, if you were curious what the Hashem namedrop in the first half is about, that's what it's for.


	5. Yihud

“Derek?”

Stiles knocked on the door to the office, where Derek had been holed up all afternoon. He had one last push on this book job, and then he’d be free for three weeks, long enough for the ceremony and a bitching honeymoon. Stiles really shouldn’t interrupt him. Except...well he wasn’t sure he could wait any longer.

He twisted the handle and pushed the door open, and the sound of Derek’s pretentious Victrola record player filtered out to meet him.

“Derek?”

It took him a second to register his name, and a long minute to pull his head up and out of the papers strewn across his desk. He blinked like he was surfacing from a dream.

“Yeah?”

“Could we talk? About the wedding?”

“Um…” he blinked a few more times, and shook his head a little, “Yeah, sure. Just let me put some stuff away.”

Stiles stepped into the room fully now, and crossed toward the armchair Derek kept by his bookcase. From there he had a sidelong view of his fiance, sitting on the very edge of his office chair with his legs curled under it and ankles crossed. His sleeves were bunched up above his elbows, and gray with graphite from the pencil marks he was making, and he looked beautiful. Exhausted, and harried, and beautiful.

“Mind shutting that thing off?” he asked, and nodded toward the record player, “It’s played past the good three songs at the beginning, and I keep meaning to go change it.”

Stiles smirked, but lifted a hand and dutifully moved the needle to its neutral position.

“You know if you used a computer, you could arrange the songs in any order you wanted.”

He laughed, “The sound quality is better. Trust me, you can’t tell with human ears but it’s there.”

Stiles’ smile faded a little, and he ducked his head to look at his hands, folded together in his lap.

“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about, actually.”

Derek hummed.

“I made a decision. About the, um...about the bite.”

Derek turned fully away from the desk, finally, and scooted forward until his feet were in Stiles’ peripheral vision. He placed a hand on each of Stiles’ knees and squeezed them like he was trying to ground him.

“Before you say, I...I just want you to know that whatever you decide is okay. I won’t ever think less of you or be offended or anything like that. I love you regardless of this decision, okay?”

Stiles smiled again, and swatted at Derek’s hand.

“You sound pretty sure of what I’m going to pick.”

“No, just...I’m just trying to dispel some anxieties before they come up. It’s your choice, I’m not prying into it.”

“Yeah, okay,” he laughed and then, with some effort, sat up straight to look his fiance in the eye, “I want the bite.”

Derek looked like he’d been slapped, his eyes wide and jaw slack as he studied Stiles. His eyes kept drifting down to his chest, as if searching for a blip or a lie in his heartbeat, and then snapping back up when he didn’t find one. It felt like an hour passed before he was surging back into motion, out of his chair and into the armchair, to straddle Stiles’ lap and cover his face with kisses.

“Woah, there. Down boy,” Stiles laughed, “I knew it! I knew you had a preference.”

“Sure, but,” he paused to kiss across Stiles’ eyelids, “it wasn’t my choice. I couldn’t pressure you or...or make you feel like you’d be disappointing me by not taking it.”

“Well,” Stiles hooked his hands into the back pockets of Derek’s jeans and tugged him closer, “I’m glad we had the same preference.”

They kissed in the chair for a long time, until the sun outside the window had dipped behind the trees, before finally winding down into a gentle calm. Stiles swept a hand along Derek’s back like a metronome. Up, down, up, down. Derek nuzzled into his neck like he planned on living there forever.

“So what will it be like? What does it feel like, to be a werewolf? You know, so I’m ready.”

Derek hummed against his skin.

“It’s hard to say. I’ve always felt like this, you know?”

“Well, then what can you hear right now? And how far?”

“I can hear you. Your heart. My heart, although I tend to sort of subconsciously filter that out. The same way your brain ignores your nose being in your field of vision.”

“It is not…” Stiles unfocused his eyes, stared at a point on the wall, “Holy shit.”

Derek laughed. “Yeah, like that. There’s the water in the pipes, always moving just a little. The buzz of electricity, I usually ignore that too. On the back porch something is getting into our garbage can, I can hear the beer bottles clinking around. Farther out there’s a cat hissing at something. If I focus I can hear our neighbors fucking.”

That startled a laugh out of Stiles and he smacked Derek on the shoulder.

“Liar.”

Derek cringed, “I wish.”

“Is there...anything I should be doing now? So I can hit the ground running, so to speak?”

Derek pulled back, for the first time since he sat in his lap, and studied Stiles’ face.

“It will be safer during a bonding ceremony, and considering that you’re taking it willingly, but the bite still carries risks. It could kill you. You should try and stay as healthy as you can between now and the wedding, no alcohol or anything else too hard on your liver or immune system. And Deaton can help you with herbs and things. Try and prepare your body for the trial it’s going to go through.”

Stiles nodded. He appreciated Derek’s worry, but it’s not like he didn’t know. Not like he hadn’t seen others get bitten and react poorly. Still, that thing about the liver was new…

“Does that include going off my adderall?”

Derek thought for a moment and then nodded.

“Ugh!” Stiles slumped back and tipped his head up to the ceiling, “I am going to be insufferable for the next month.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's kind of short, but tomorrow's should be full length.


	6. Consummation

They did get married in a field, incidentally, although they weren’t naked. Derek had expected Stiles to make fun of him when he asked (he did), and for Rabbi Volkovich to scoff (he didn’t), but it turned out to be common in Judaism as well.

“So that your marriage will be blessed by as many children as there are stars in the sky.” The rabbi’s smile was soft and indulgent.

“Guess you’ll get your wish for a big family,” Stiles added.

A clearing just fifteen minutes walk from the Fish and Wildlife Office in the preserve was chosen, so people would have a place to park, and they’d filled it with tables of food and white four-pole tents for shade, and a few concentric circles of folding chairs surrounding the much older canvas tent that would serve as their chuppah, so the guests who weren’t family or pack could still see the ceremony just fine. The chuppah was wrapped in a creeping vine, one that Deaton and Stiles had coaxed out of the ground and that bloomed with moonflowers, just a little early for the season.

To avoid the Sabbath, so one joyous occasion may not overlap with another, they held it on a Wednesday.

In accordance with the moon, they chose one that would fall on a waxing crescent, for new growth and beginnings.

And for the part of each of them that believed in romance and superstition and sappy movies on the Hallmark channel, they waited for the ceremony to start from behind two screens, so that neither one would see the other’s wedding clothes before the ceremony began.

“So, fair warning,” Stiles called over, “I’m going to be a sweaty mess by the time I come out. We might have to spray the chuppah down with Old Spice to handle the situation.”

“You’ll be fine,” Scott said. Boyd was straightening Derek’s tie, fussing over every fold and button on his outfit, and Scott was going over the same details on Stiles’ side of the screens. Even as he tried to be a comfort, Derek was pretty sure Scott was even more nervous than Stiles was.

“Scott’s right,” Derek called back, “and even if things aren’t fine I could always just distract from the smell by throwing up. Pretty sure it’s going to happen anyway.”

He huffed a laugh, and even though it sounded false, and a part of Derek uncoiled at the sound. They were both so nervous, but it felt right to be. This was huge. This was the rest of their  _ lives _ .

“You know, technically we’ve already gotten kiddushin. Like, a bunch of times. I accepted a ring from you, and we had sex, and we filed paperwork with the state like a week ago. That last one might be suspect but...if you want to just skip straight to the honeymoon, we’d be married either way.”

Derek sighed, and even through two screens he hoped Stiles could  _ feel _ the scorn.

“Pretty sure the rabbi would disagree there. And Nikolana definitely would.”

“Details, details,” Stiles laughed.

“Alright, boys!” Melissa called out as she approached the pair, “Ready?”

He heard Stiles blow a breath out, then suck one in with a shudder.

“Yeah,” he croaked out. On his side, Derek just grunted.

They stepped out to a view of the whole field before them. Scott held Stiles’ arm and Boyd held Derek’s and they both stared straight ahead as they walked.

The chairs were filled, some with friends Stiles had made at Berkely, some members of Derek’s old pack from New York who had flown out, a bunch of locals that featured in their every day lives. Around the chuppah, the pack stood in a circle with their hands joined, an opening left for the grooms to walk through, that would immediately be closed by their best men. And inside the chuppah stood their families. Melissa, Noah, and Cora. Plus Rabbi Volkovich. Derek’s eyes already felt wet and his breathing wobbly.

“Blessed are you who come in the name of Adonai,” the rabbi said. Stiles beamed and ducked his head.

They turned toward one another, at last, and Derek started to cry. He knew what the suit looked like, they’d gone over color schemes and used the same tailor. It shouldn’t be so surprising. Still, the jewel toned blue stood starkly against Stiles’ skin and his hair looked dark and smoothly styled. He was tall, and broad shouldered, and looked as close to crying as Derek was. This was his husband. Or he would be, in just a moment.

He lifted a hand for Stiles to take.

The rabbi lifted a glass of wine and began to speak the blessing, and as he did Stiles and Derek turned slowly in a circle. Once, twice, all the way to seven times. When they stopped his head felt a little floaty, but he stepped in just like they’d practiced and tilted his head far to the side. They’d chosen to combine this part, the circling from Stiles’ faith with the baring of throats for Derek. He buried his nose in Stiles’ pulse just as Stiles did the same, and then Rabbi Volkovich was tapping him on the shoulder and when he pulled away there was wine for him to drink.

They stepped away, then, and he reached into his pocket for the band that would sit beside Stiles’ engagement ring. When Stiles offered his finger, he slipped it on without a word, and then offered his own hand.

"Behold, you are consecrated to me with this ring, according to the laws of Moses and Israel," Stiles said. He slid a matching metal ring on, and held it there for a few seconds just looking.

There were more blessings, seven just like the seven turns, and one more over more wine, and one more over the marriage as a whole. The rabbi spoke in that same melodic, even tone, sliding between languages without thought. When they came to a close, Derek got to his knees, and helped Stiles to get down as well, and Rabbi Volkovich stepped back and away.

“You are mine under the moon, and under our mother, and before our pack,” he spoke quietly, so those outside the pack’s circle couldn’t make out the individual words, “I have only one matehood to give, and I give it gladly to you. Da ilai i'assuzs nil ars i'ar i'a zas? Da ilai i'assuzs nil ars i'ar i'a ni'ar?”

_ Do you accept my bond as a wolf? Do you accept my bond as a man? _

Stiles ran his hands down Derek’s arms and to his hands, and shuffled forward just a little so he could sit on his haunches. He offered a smile, and pressed a kiss to Derek’s mouth before answering.

“Zas.”

Derek pulled his suit jacket to the side, revealing a pale shoulder, and fit his fangs around the clavical there. He felt the power rush out from the center of him and towards his mouth, and just barely avoided pulling back as that power connected with Stiles skin. After a few moments of waiting just to be sure, he pulled his fangs out and let them recede, and then Noah was there helping Stiles lay gauze over the bite and close his suit to cover it, and Cora was beside him to wipe his mouth clean of blood and help him stagger to his feet.

They both stood, panting, and watching one another for a few moments. The pack, together, started to emit a low growling, just barely audible to Stiles but resonant to Derek, and they all pressed in closer around the outside of the tent.

Melissa passed Stiles the handkerchief with Hale written across one corner, and Derek could see the bulge where it was wrapped around a lightbulb. (The sheriff had assured them it made more noise than a champagne glass.) He nodded at the pack, acknowledging that they’d accepted Stiles as his mate and they broke their circle and dispersed, so those outside could get a better view. Stiles laid the glass and handkerchief on the ground and reached out to hold Derek’s hand.

“Be my guest,” he smiled.

Derek crushed the glass under the sole of his shoe, and that was it. They were married.

 

***

 

It was reaching midnight, the party still loud and vibrant, even as some of the older guests had called it a night and headed home. The sheriff and Melissa were camped out at one of the tables demolishing a tray of parmesan potatoes all to themselves, as Stiles and Derek danced in the grass in front of them.

“We did good with that kid,” Melissa said.

“Excuse you,” Noah said, “ _ I  _ did good.”

“Oh no,” she laughed, “I so get to take parental credit. Which one of us gave him the sex talk?”

The sheriff covered his mouth with the back of his hand, a fork dangling from his fingertips, and tried desperately not to laugh with a mouth full of food.

“Okay,” he said, finally, still chuckling lowly, “You got me there.”

Melissa sighed and leaned into him, and Noah wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“He picked a good one, I’d say.”

“Yeah. I wish he hadn’t taken the risk he’s taking with the whole…” he gestured towards Stiles in lieu of saying the word ‘bite’ out loud, “but I do think that if anyone was worth it, it’s Derek.”

He shovelled another bite into his mouth, just to keep it full for a minute and let him sort out his thoughts, before adding: “And if anyone would make a good werewolf, it’s Stiles.”

Across the lawn, Stiles lifted his head off Derek’s shoulder and tilted back until his face was pointed toward the sky. He took in a breath and then started to howl, his human voice giving way to a deep rumbling noise that echoed throughout the forest. The other wolves, scattered throughout the wedding party, howled back. Derek just held him tighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand this one's late. Took the kids to gymnastics and didn't post it beforehand. Oh well.
> 
> I used [this](https://reformjudaism.org/jewish-rituals-wedding-day) as a guide for how the Jewish ceremony should go but at the same time I didn't want to walk through the entire thing because it's pretty repetative. I hope it turned out well and that you all enjoyed the story!


End file.
